Dear diary,
I leave the Magic Shop in the best of spirits. Seeing that I’m directly across from the mall’s Food Court, I decide to stop and have another brunch. — I order freshly killed bear meat, four logs of wood, a torch, two hard taco shells, and some B-2 steak sauce.
[NOTE re “yet another brunch”: I stopped and had brunch a few times when I was driving earlier, before I abolished my Suburban; but I skipped mentioning all of these other brunches, because I didn’t want this memoir to get bogged down with brunch-induced pleasures — for the main problem with modern memoirs is that they contain too many descriptions of multiple brunches.]
“And to drink?” sez the cashier.
“Ah, yes, I should order a beverage, as well; I almost forgot about that,” I say. Then I stand staring at the menu, which is printed overhead on a glowing board. I squint because my vision gets blurry when I try to read anything other than sublime poetry. “Sorry,” I say, “it’s hard for me to make out what the choices are…”
“I can recite the list for you,” sez the cashier: “there’s lemonade… fruit punch… root beer… goat’s milk… grape juice… orange liquid… club soda… cherry syrup… kale puree… canned tomatoes… raw egg…”
“No, wait, halt,” I say, holding up my hand like a traffic cop; “please, do not read even a single item: I know exactly what I want.”
“OK, great. My name is Tara, by the way,” sez the cashier.
“Ah, hello Tara!” we meet eyes and I kiss her hand; “I’m sorry I was so impersonal — I was just preoccupied with what I should order — you see, it’s my sixth brunch of the day, and I didn’t want to consume any of the same items that I’ve already enjoyed (my resolution for this year is to become a more adventurous gourmand). But it is very nice to meet you. My own name is Bryan Ray: yes, the famous author and magician. I just came from the Magic Shop.” I hold up the Death Bag that is filled with all the marvels I just bought.
“Wow, six brunches, really?” sez Tara the cashier. “The most I’ve ever had is three or four.”
“Well, three square brunches in between your other three daily meals is what the Gut Police recommend,” I say.
“I’m a huge fan, by the way,” sez Tara the cashier; “my favorite of your books is Vampyre Bryan; and my favorite scenes are the ones with the clerk Gustav.”
“Ah, Gustav, the hotel clerk,” I smile; “yes, I think I recall...”
“I would just melt if I could be in one of your texts and do a scene of dialogue with you,” sez Tara the cashier.
I now smile even brighter: “I’ll tell you what, Tara. If you can fulfill my order here, and allow me to put it all on a tab (cuz I’m out of money, at the moment), I’ll try to remember to write you into my next teleplay.”
“Oh! That’s dreamy!” Tara hops in place one time and continues rapidly pressing her fingers together in tiny claps. Then she inhales sharply and sez: “Should I disrobe?”
“No, that’s not necessary,” I say; “not unless you were going to do so anyway. Just continue to act naturally — all my books are documentary films: they present the accountant’s truth. Now, shall I order my beverage?”
“Oh, the drink!” Tara fans herself: “OK, let’s do this.” She stands confidently before the register.
“Alright,” I say, “now, are you familiar with the river that is spoken of in Psalm 46?”
“Absolutely,” Tara swells with confidence: “you mean verse four: ‘There is a river, the streams whereof shall make glad the city of God…’”
“Yes, yes, exactly,” I say. “Very good! Now, this pure river of life is filled with liquid that’s clear as crystal, and it flows past the throne of God.”
“I know it well,” Tara nods firmly.
“Great,” I say. “Now, could you go fetch the Holy Grail — you know, the cup used by Jesus at the Last Supper, in which Joseph of Arimathea received Christ’s blood at the Cross — and dump out all the Christ-blood and wash its interior thoroughly, then dip it in that river from Psalm 46? That’s what I’m most in the mood for, at the moment.”
Tara presses two more buttons on the register; then she places one hand behind the receipt that’s extending from the machine’s top, while the paper is still attached, to read its itemized list aloud before she finalizes my order:
“Alright, so you want a family-sized order of fresh-killed bear meat (salted), four wood-logs, a blazing torch, two taco shells (hard), a gallon of steak sauce on the side, and one grail of distilled liquid-crystal from the River of Life. Is that correct?”
“That’s right,” I say. “Perfect.”
“Your total comes to sixteen eleven,” Tara presses the button that causes the register to open; then she tears off the receipt and begins to write with a quill on its parchment, voicing the following explanation as she does so: “—but I’m making a note here to ‘forgive this debt immediately, because it’s Bryan the Magus, owner of the Black Sorcery Sector of the Nighttime Forest’.”
“Excellent,” I say. “Thank you so much.”
“And then I’ll add, in superfine lawyer’s print,” sez Tara, continuing to scribble on the receipt, “that ‘our diner’s fulfillment of this order shall prevent all of us staff members who expedited it from getting mauled the next time Bryan transmogrifies into a Burning Tyger’.”
“That’s a wise addendum,” I say. “You can forge a little paw print there, to signify that I myself fully agree to these terms. Dip the quill in red ink, if you happen to have any.”
“Got some right here,” Tara holds up a little jar and then dips the quill and makes a few circular blots on the papyrus. “Alright, now that’s done! Here’s your receipt, sir,” she hands me the parchment, mock-seriously while we both giggle; then, after holding up one finger, as if to say “Just a moment… just a moment…” she disappears behind the curtains for a spell:
When Tara returns, she’s holding a large tray with the meat, the wood, the taco shells, and the sauce. She presents me this bruncheon feast; then hands over the torch separately, for the sake of safety, and adds: “I’ll be right back with your beverage — take a seat in the cafeteria, and I’ll bring it out to you.”
“Many thanks!” I turn and set down the tray at the largest, round table that is the nucleus of the Food Court. All the surrounding diners watch me curiously as I get situated; then they continue observing as they pretend to return to mingling with their tablemates.
Now, when I mentioned “getting situated”, what I meant is this. I take the four logs of wood off the tray and place them at the center of my table. Then I take the torch and hold it forth so that it ignites the wood. I blow upon the burning logs until the fire rages. Then, after tossing the torch into the nearby water fountain and savoring the sound of it hissing shut, I take the freshly killed bear meat in my hand and hold it over the flames for one moment. Then I divide the flesh into smaller segments; and, after submerging each morsel in the steak sauce, I insert this rare meat into the homemade hard-shells until each one is brimming.
I notice that various attractive women at the surrounding tables have been eyeing me with wonder, as I perform all of the above acts with such poise and expertise; so I raise my voice and explain to them all as follows:
“I know that it’s not the best practice to douse fine bear-meat in steak sauce, and I normally wouldn’t cook it — this is not imported, by the way: I ordered it freshly killed; so it’s local — if we were in, say, Hyperborea, which is known for having the most exquisite grizzlies, I would consume it tartare-style; but I’m acting preemptively on this occasion, because I actually grew up here in Minnesota, thus I know the quality of our bears — they’re not bad, but they’re significantly improved by the addition of even a second-rate condiment.”
The women all nod and say “Oh,” and “Ah,” and “Huh,” and “That makes sense.”
Then, just as I crunch into the first taco’s surge of flavor-bliss, the roar of discussion amid the multitude of diners falls silent, for a sight has captured the cafeteria’s attention:
Pacing gracefully out from the drapes of her diner’s kitchenette is my most recent acquaintance Tara, the cashier from above — tho we all first assume that it’s the goddess Aphrodite, because she has slipped out of her work uniform and is approaching me holding the chalice of crystal liquor. Placing it before me at the table, she exclaims with a smile: “I wish that they had built this court area at a lower level than the storefronts that encircle it, so that I could have descended to you on an escalier just now; but I hope that I countered the cafeteria’s flatness by disrobing.”
“Oh, you are marvelous!” I say; then I extend my arms and address the surrounding diners: “Isn’t she marvelous? Let’s all give Tara a hand!” — The place now thunders with applause, and Tara blushes. I gesture to the grail and yell my next lines to Tara so that I can be heard over the cheers of the crowd:
“Do you want to try the elixir? I’d be honored if you’d join me.”
Tara nods eagerly and receives the chalice that I offer her. She presses the cup to her lips and starts out sipping very carefully, since it is brimful. Soon she begins to drink deeper: As she tips back the cup with swelling desire, two rivulets of the liquid crystal trickle from the sides of her mouth; then stream down her soft neck and trace the curves of her bosom, leaving her glistening.
“Have a seat,” I say, when she finishes, and she sits down at my side. I offer her a Bear Taco but she declines, preferring instead to drink the River of Life from the grail. I try some too, after devouring more of the meat. “Everything tastes fan-TAS-tic,” I say.
The whole rest of our brunch goes pleasantly, and we end up exchanging contact info, because, as we converse while finishing the elixir, we discover that we have much in common — up to and including even past lives. Tara suggests that she quit her job at the mall diner and become my full-time magician’s assistant. I agree that this is a splendid idea. We grab a napkin from the dispenser and quickly draw up plans for a potential magic routine; then we embrace and go our separate ways.
No comments:
Post a Comment