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Prolific Writer
Join Date: May 2005
Location: Iowa
Gender: Male
Posts: 238
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The Salad Bar Game (Part I) - Comedy
A bit wordy for one post, so I'll make it into two.
The Salad Bar Game
Everyone has a twin. From the lowliest bus boy to the flashiest movie star, somewhere out there is our second half, living out their day to day lives, oblivious. Most never meet their spitting image, and, perhaps it is for the better. But one man, one day, met his.
And it changed him. Forever.
Cody Campbell had a plain, easily-computer generated face. With caterpillar eyebrows and a mop of fatherly hair, he was often confused for the neighbor next door. Complete strangers repeatedly spoke words of hello, only to realize seconds later that this was merely some random dude.
Cody Campbell just had that face. Even at school, where originality ruled, he led a squad of look-a-likes.
First was Supersize Cody, who sported the same pair of Harry Carey glasses and protruding sideburns so dastardly that they could only be described as rude. Second was Gay Cody, who in actuality looked nothing like the real Cody, but because he shared the same name, he was inducted into the lineup – that and he was known to clamber up and crap on steel-linked fences (again, no common ground, but c’mon, bare crack on a thin fence!). Ranking third was a man referred to as Cody’s walk-along, who paced in the same manner as Cody, with minimal to no arm movement – not to be confused with the Howie Long Special.
And then there was Big Cody. The resemblance he bore to Cody Campbell was as striking as Tom’s mom’s divorce shovel unearthing gold. Yes…striking.
It was during our junior year that we stumbled upon Big Cody. Once discovered, he became a bit of a relic, and his appearance was often accompanied by a point, a whisper, and a reference to Cody Campbell. Nothing more.
But that world quickly came crashing down.
“Why do black people name their kids so weird?” I wondered aloud, stabbing my salisbury steak with a plastic knife.
Across the lunch table, Cody shrugged.
“Does that make me racist for saying that?”
Cody furrowed his brow. “Not if you follow it by a white joke. Quick, make fun of a Caucasian!”
“What does Maria Shriver dress up for at Halloween?”
“What?”
“A human.”
Cody giggled, but quickly grew serious. “Dude, that was an anorexic joke, not a white joke!”
“Oh.”
“Hurry, you only got five seconds or you’re racist!”
“Ok, uh…what do you get when you cross poor English with bad dental hygiene?”
“Jewel?”
“No, Arkansas.”
“Nice.” After giving Cody tartar sauce knuckles, I wiped my brow. I only had like two white-jokes in my bag of comedy. Thank God for the south.
Cody nudged me from my thoughts. “Hey, you ever notice how Big Cody takes a really long time at the salad bar?”
I shook my head. “I’m generally too busy leering at those luscious lunch-ladies. Grrrr.”
Frowning, Cody continued. “Well, I’ve been watching him lately, and he really does take a long time!”
“No he doesn’t,” I reasoned, waving him off with a haughty arm. “Don’t be so foolish. Nobody likes the salad bar.”
“Sure he does!” my friend countered. “He’s almost finished punching in his number.” He jerked his head towards the far end of the cafeteria. “See for yourself.”
I sighed my acceptance. Arguing with Cody was like debating politics with a street bum. Right or wrong, I was still a loser.
My gaze swept over the cafeteria, pinpointing Big Cody at the salad bar. Idly he puttered with the lettuce, like a cat toying with a mouse, knowing he could gulp it down at any moment, but just not really caring.
Unimpressed, I scratched my chin. “I told you.”
A second later I ate my own words. Like a ravenous beast, Big Cody’s visage transformed into something so intense that one might compare it to camping. Yes, in tents. His eyes flashed as he spotted the cheese and bread crumbs, filling his tray to the brim.
Big Cody attacked the salad bar without fear, shame, or remorse. Lettuce flew wildly, bread crumbs were crushed before his might, dressing sprayed everywhere, and we were awed – no, inspired.
“He’s an animal!” I marveled. Dropping to the floor, my jaw came to the same conclusion.
And just when we thought he couldn’t pile on any more food, somehow he found room, sneaking a splash of pineapple into crevices that a normal eye would never detect. At last he came to the end of the salad bar, to the dressing. Just before heaving down on the dispenser, his hand hovered over the bottle, and I thought I saw the tiniest little smirk appear on his face. And then, proudly, he topped his plate off with a waterfall of ranch dressing.
When he was finished, Big Cody took two steps away from the salad bar, eyes roaming the cafeteria like a caveman who had just killed a deer. His confident gaze was almost inhuman, like a magnetic force sucking us in, calling us, pulling us. As he scanned for a place to sit and feast, I realized the danger of our situation.
I struggled to free my gaze. “Must…look…away.” By Cody’s grunts I knew he was fighting off the same temptation. But it was no use. We were stuck on him like a pair of jeans on a Rosie O’Donnell.
And then our eyes met. We were caught. Suddenly the tractor beam was released, and, snapping out of our trance, we desperately tried to cover our tracks. I threw on a pair of Mickey-Mouse ears, stuck my hands in my pockets, and whistled innocently. Cody planted his face on his plate, cramming brown peas into his mouth. “Der good!” he mumbled, tears lining his eyes. I shuddered.
A lifetime passed before we mustered up the courage to glance up. Three tables down, Big Cody sat hunched over his plate, contentedly munching on a leaf of lettuce.
For some time we simply stared at the back of his head, until finally I broke the silence. “He must have been up there like two minutes! I mean, that doesn’t seem like much, but really how long are you usually up there, 30 seconds?”
Cody proudly slurped down a pear. “I told you!”
The following day, perched in the cafeteria, we were as excited as 14 year old girls at a Back Street Boys concert, awaiting the arrival of Justin Timberlake. The rumor of yesterday’s event spread through our click like a virus, and those who would listen eagerly joined our cause.
I checked the clock on the wall. He’s late, I thought. What if he doesn’t show? Something told me that my comrades shared my concerns; whether it was my intuition, or the fact that Nemmers, ever the advocate for the hearing impaired, held up a cardboard sign that read, ‘He’s not coming’, I wasn’t sure. More minutes passed, and murmurs began to spring up like bullfrogs in a pond.
“Big Cody’s not coming,” claimed Nemmers, striking his fist on the table for that added effect. “Cody’s full of it.”
“I just don’t believe it,” announced Boz. “Two minutes? Come on. Now a minute and a half I could see, but two? No, impossible, not gonna happen.”
All around, the doubters crept out of the shadows. It was like being caught in a storm, helpless as you were assaulted from all sides. I then compared myself to Mahatma Ghandi, except I decided to vent my frustration by backhanding Tom across the chest, whereas that wussy monk would have just taken it in the rear.
Still the voices sung on. I sunk my head into my lap, defeated.
And then, like the rising sun, Big Cody crawled out from the shadows. As if one with his tray, he grabbed a milk, punched in his number, and swooped his tray onto the counter.
“Did you see that?” cried Nemmers, pulling his hair out in tufts of excitement. “That was a perfect reverse tray swoop!”
“He even stuck the landing!” Cody offered me a high five cuddle, which was graciously declined.
Long story short, Big Cody’s performance was dazzling. Not only did he live up to every expectation, but he far surpassed them – shattered them, really. The crowd watched with awe. And fear. It was like marveling at a magician’s trick, one that spooks the soul and chips away at everything you know to be true.
For many of us, that day was the defining moment of our lives. We were shocked and amazed, like the time when Bobby Kennedy III snorted a crushed up piece of plaster. Some went to school the next day with a new outlook on life, while others went with a new pair of shoes, and an extra skip in their step. But me, well, I entered the cafeteria with a napkin and a pencil.
It was time to start placing bets.
Big Cody appeared as random as a tourette’s outburst. The mashed potatoes cowered before his presence as he grabbed a tray, a milk, and punched in his number.
“Time starts now,” I said the instant his tray clunked down on the salad bar. Taking note at the clock on the wall, we watched Big Cody do his thing. After tossing some lettuce down, he hurried onto the cheese and bacon bits. A light dusting, and he eyed the crab salad, but passed it up and proceeded to the fruit.
Several of us exchanged a look, noting how far along he was, and how little time had expired. We were worried, like the first time you crap green. Big Cody was nearly spent, and it had only been one minute.
“It’s as if he’s in a hurry!” I exclaimed. Big Cody marched to the salad dressing, splotched an ugly heap on his lettuce, and turned around. Time. After a meager one minute and fifteen seconds, Big Cody was finished.
“Yes!” cried Stuart with a fist pump. The rest of us threw our napkins down in disgust. A Big Cody skeptic, Stuart had picked a long-shot of 1:20. Victory secured, the Texan decided to mock us, lighting up a cross and throwing on a white robe, just in case.
And then the impossible happened.
Approaching the tables, suddenly Big Cody shifted, like a man leaving for work, just remembering he forgot to lock the door. Big Cody made a 90 degree turn and headed in the opposite direction.
Towards the salad bar.
“Look!” shouted Cody, as the candles of hope were lit anew. “He’s going back for more. HE’S GOING BACK FOR MORE!”
The entire table whooped with joy, watching eagerly as Big Cody’s confident strides carried him right back to the beginning, to the lettuce. After piling on more green leaves, cheese, and bacon bits, he returned to the crab salad. An intuitive eye could almost see his inner argument. Ten seconds later, his hunger finally won, and he heaped a slimy spoonful onto his plate.
“What a crowd pleaser,” commented Brad.
“Shut the hell up dirds,” sneered Stuart.
Bypassing the veggies, Big Cody made B line for the dressing.
“I see what he’s doing,” commented an enlightened Cody. “He went back to the other side of the salad bar, because the French dressing is on that side, and he didn’t want to bully anyone by butting in line again.” Cody smiled that frog-eyed smile of his, thoroughly pleased, and cockily pushed his glasses back up his nose. “It’s all falling into place now.”
After squirting a string of French dressing over his salad, Big Cody scanned the lunch room in search of a place to sit.
“Time!” I shouted. “Two minutes and 42 seconds!”
“That’s got to be some sort of record!” marveled Nemmers, biting into a donut to help ease the shock.
“I guessed 2:45!” shouted Cody. “I win!”
In due order, we gave the winner a standing ovation, dumped our trays, and headed back to class.
Word quickly spread of the miracle at the salad bar. Needless to say, the game caught on like short shorts during the 80’s. Students of all grades, all ages, and all clicks participated. However, we soon found ourselves overwhelmed by the ever-increasing popularity, and before long our little game threatened to spiral out of control...
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