May 21: The Rockin' Tomato

The TV blared on about last night's Yankees/Rays game before transcending into the possibility of a Terrell Owens/Donovan McNabb reunion in Washington DC. My lettuce was limp and the pizza was cold. The Mountain Dew was bubbly and delicious, but not worth the eight dollars admission.

As I sat and watched the BarFly trivia ask questions like "Who played Dirty Harry?" on a shared screen with SportsCenter, I heard the faint jingle of a small bell behind me. The sound of a new customer entering the Rockin' Tomato for an overpriced pizza buffet lunch.

I took a bite of my dry and stale pizza before turning to see what the new patrons looked like. My eyes were treated to a site of two bovines waddling to the counter to pay for their meal. As entertained as the sight was, my conscience felt nothing more than guilt.

There I sat at the prime of my youth. Slender, energetic, spry, flexible, and healthy. There I sat with a plate of pizza and a glass of carbonated sugar. I had my plate of salad, though! Lettuce, broccoli, cucumber, and carrots. The perfect balance to my accompanying dishes smothered with a viscous honey mustard dressing.

I stared at my plates. I took a slow gulp of soda. I turned a dressing-covered cucumber upside down revealing its natural dark, green bordered disc of pale seeds and continued chewing my pepperoni and sausage slice. I watched the two cows make their way past the salad bar and to the pizza beneath the heat lamps. The bull, with his bedsheets-sized plaid shirt, licked his lips and proceeded to fill his cup with Dr. Pepper. His wife, in all her moo moo glory, suppressed the urge to take an entire pie and settled for two slices of cheese and one piece of pepperoni.

Disgusted, I looked down at my food. My cold pizza had transformed into a plate of gray, slimy tentacles reaching for my heart. The arms of death grasped at my throat and attempted to squeeze the breath out of me. My pulse slowed to a crawl as I struggled to hold on to my life. The green soda gargled and spat boiling, hot streams of acid on my hands. Red hives and pink rashes spread from each landing zone and worked their way up and under my sleeves. Each individual character of my salad leaped off of the plate and sprinted across the table towards my chest. The carrots grew angry expressions of hate and rage as the cucumbers wheeled their half-covered bodies on to my lap.

My stomach tried to fight back by growling and my heart pleaded for mercy as it pounded on the inside of my chest. My mouth grew dry and my bowels silently belched hot and invisible clouds of gas. The patrons at the buffet turned and hissed deep, satanic fits of laughter. Their demonic, red eyes were dark and orange pits of flame that licked at their eyelashes.

I could barely finish my bite as I struggled with my young, athletic legs to stand. I grabbed my paper napkin from my lap and threw it on top of the fighting broccoli and flapping romaine lettuce. My vision was blinded with a white light from standing too fast, but I persisted. I reached in front of me for the bell on the door and pushed. I heard one last growl of laughter from the Dr. Pepper chugging bull as the door closed behind me and I escaped into the hot Austin air.