What we ended up with was a sandwich from the bowels of Hades: meatloaf, sloppy joe, angel food cake, orange, brownie, mustard, and coleslaw bookended by chocolate chip cookies. We all stared at it slouching on the plate, weighed down by its own repugnance. We couldn't just let this slip by-- someone had to eat it. Quips and suggestions turned to accusations and challenges. Deals were cut and rebuffed. Second offers were brought to the table, and then third offers. The bidding parties were finally whittled down to myself and my friend Cheyne, with terms something like this:
Levi ( forthwith reffered to as Party A ) agrees to take one fairsized bite ( at least 6 oz. but not exceeding 10 oz.) of the sandwich, earning in return the irrefutable right to suggest an activity for Cheyne ( forthwith Party B ) to participate in before the parties depart the cafeteria. Party B hereby agrees to participate in said activity, notwithstanding any personal discomfort or embarrasment. Party B then agrees to take one fairsized bite of the sandwich, in return for the right to suggest a similar activity for Party A, which Party A agrees to participate in, notwithstanding any personal discomfort or embarassment. Parties reserve the right to judge the bitesize to their satisfaction, pending the satisfaction of an appointed third party.
With business out of the way, I faced the sandwich. It squished as I picked it up. I tried not to notice the mustard soaking through the brownie to meet the coleslaw. Suffice it to say that that bite triggered my gag reflex eleven times in twenty seconds, and that the taste of throwing up would've been sweet relief from the burning foulness in my mouth-- but it was well worth it. People eating lunch stared as Cheyne ran around the room, looking from side to side, repeating, "Where's my bucket and shovel?" in an increasingly frantic tone. Finally, when he had the confused attention of nearly the entire cafeteria, he ran to the dirty dish conveyor belt and jumped on, riding it through the very small opening in the wall into the dishwashing room on his stomach.
When he returned, he was wet and had bits of food smashed onto his shirt, not to mention half the cafeteria was looking around for a bucket and shovel. Now it was my turn to publicly humiliate myself. Lunchtime buzz had picked up again, but it quickly died when the rousing chorus of Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" burst from my mouth. I felt five hundred eyes burning me from every angle. I was on one knee, singing at the top of my lungs to a girl I had never met. I think I did a fair job. The funny thing is, it was her birthday that day.