If you haven't read the first part, here ya go:
http://www.writingforums.com/short-s...-i-comedy.html
The Salad Bar Game (continued)
Nearly a month had passed, and my gambling agency now had a platinum credit line and stock options. Not too shabby, I told myself as I strolled down the hallway. Spotting Cody, I angled my course and halted next to his locker.
“Today is finally the day!” he burst before I could say hello.
“For what?”
“Tacos!” My eyes went wide. Taco day! How had I forgotten!?
“Just think of all the choices Big Cody will have! I’m predicting a record breaking 3:30.”
Peering into Cody’s messy locker, I noticed a flurry of scratches marked into the steel. “Your door looks like a Freddy Krueger victim.”
Cody grinned. “I’ve been tallying the days leading up to taco day, just so I wouldn’t forget.”
As I nodded my approval, Cody slammed the door shut. “C’mon,” he urged. “We better go now if we want a good seat.”
Spotting a crevice, we squeezed in line, got our food, and took our respective seats. Front row. Of course, we had to flash our badges, but security nodded their approval and let us pass.
“Bets in,” declared Boz, playing the carnie this day, instead of the clown. I slid my folded napkin forward, and Boz safe-guarded the rest of the bets. While we waited, I decided to use this down-time to eat my lunch. However, my sustenance would have to wait, as we spotted Big Cody just as I spooned in my first mouthful of corn.
Gingerly, Big Cody plucked a tray from the stack, did his usual, and marched to the salad bar.
“Time starts now,” I stated.
Wasting no time, Big Cody dove into the lettuce. But something was amiss. After stabbing a tomato slice and peeling it off his fork, Big Cody perked his head up and sniffed the air. He sensed us.
Mind roiling with questions, my eyes darted back and forth, desperately searching for the cause of our broken concealment.
Adjacent to our table, a score of underclassmen were placing bets, but instead of being discrete, like a couple of perverts in the back of a library, they were outright blatant about it, chanting his name and holding up signs as if it was a football game.
Nervously, Big Cody slowed his chewing, the limp piece of lettuce hanging on his lip for a split second before falling to the ground. Carefully, he moved onto the vegetables, ears pricked, possibly hearing the chant of, “Car-rots! Car-rots!” echoing from the far end of the cafeteria.
“Stop!” I scolded, wishing Merry Poppins was here. “Stop it! You’ll spook him!” But like a bad cat, the underclassmen paid no heed.
“They’ll alert him to us!” cried Cody. “And we forgot the doe musk!”
At last, frightened and acting purely on instinct, Big Cody dropped his tray and took flight. We watched helplessly as he darted away, disappearing into the underbrush.
“Time,” I snarled.
“One minute and 23 seconds,” sighed Nemmers, deflated.
Cody spat in disgust. “What a waste!”
“It was those damn underclassmen!” I shouted. Glaring in their direction, like a deserted captain lost at sea, I shook my fist and hollered, “You’ll pay for this…you’ll pay for this!”
“Um, they’re like two feet away, Dan,” informed Nemmers.
Before I could fire back, our conversation was interrupted by one of the LD teachers, who had been watching us from off to the side.
“I know what you guys are doing,” she scolded. “I know, and it’s sick!” She then pulled out the stoplight of behavior, and pointed to the red light. “This is where you are! So stop now and don’t do it again!”
Cold fear trickled down our spines as she clomped away. What to do now!? The question ran through all of us. Surely we couldn’t give up the best thing since wide mouth pop cans! But on the other hand, how could we openly defy orders? We might have earned plenty of street credit by drag racing in Cody’s Vanzilla, but we were no street thugs. We didn’t even own do-rags!
All afternoon I pondered over our dilemma, falling short of any conclusive answers. When noon the next day reached us, we were at the same spot we had been the day before.
Grim was our mood as we eyed each other, not a man speaking a word. We just sat there in silence. Cold, terrible silence. What to do? I wondered again, studying the brave men who had joined us, laughed with us, and cried with us; the same men who had devoted their entire lunches for this great cause. And then, finally, Stuart spoke, and I realized the undeniable truth that we must live by.
“I ride ‘til I die,” he declared, holding out his palm. The rest of us nodded and stretched out our hands.
“Ride ‘til I die,” we chanted. At that moment Big Cody appeared, stamping the ground like the proud beast that he was. High in her tree-stand, we spotted the LD teacher, staring back through camouflage binoculars. In an act of defiance, boldly our pens stroked the napkins, etching our bets in figurative stone. She couldn’t stop us, not together. Not as one.
When the napkins were in, proudly we kicked back and watched it unfold, restoring The Salad Bar Game to its former glory.
One peaceful week passed, free from oppression, interference, and taxes. For that one, glorious week, everything was right in the world. Everything was in harmony.
Eight days later, emerging from the cafeteria after a rollercoaster waffle lunch day, we took our respective place in the hallway, waiting out the rest of the lunch period. Although everything appeared normal, something didn’t feel right to me. Glancing over my shoulder, I then noticed Nemmers poking me with a stick.
With the grace of a French aristocrat, I backhanded the stick out of his grasp. Well that explained what didn’t feel right, but despite that, a bad feeling still lingered.
Down the hall, Big Cody exited the cafeteria, his strides long and determined, like a warrior’s. A figure trailed him, and, when the fluorescents broke the shadows, we saw that it was Mitch ‘Dubz’ Waugh, sporting a mischievous smile and a new pair of Quag boots.
“What’s he doing?” I asked Cody.
Before my friend could reply, it happened.
“Yo, Big Codes,” coaxed Dubz, approaching Big Cody. His words were but a whisper, spoken in his distinct gangster poetry. “Did you know we time you at the salad bar?”
Atom bomb dropped. Hiroshima – our game, our joy, our life - was blown to hell and back.
As one our jaws crashed to the floor, unable to speak. In one, unfathomable sentence, Mitch had shattered months worth of work. The result was complete, utter devastation.
Some sank into a dark depression, others went out of their minds. Next to me, Cody fell to the ground, staring blankly, arm twitching.
“He’s gone into shock!” I screamed. “Someone help him!” But nobody could. Men were going down all around me, good men; men I had grown up with, men I had gone to school with. Nemmers pointlessly started running in circles, like a cat chasing its tail, while off to the side, Stuart had sunk to his knees, one solitary tear edging down his cheek. Everything was collapsing; my game, my world, and me with it.
“NOOOOOOO!” I wailed, dropping to the ground. The ceiling above swirled in chaos, and the last thing I remembered was the napkin that had fallen from my pocket, resting next to my face, the times of this day’s lunch recorded. And then darkness took me.
Heresy is a devilish act. Some sell themselves for money, others for glory, while some do it simply because they feel it is right. Whatever the reason behind the Great Betrayal of our time, this man will always remember.
April 15th, 2003,
we will never forget.
