Brain’s exhausted from perplexing problems. Dazed thoughts. Hopeful thoughts. Thoughts of scrumptious popcorn shrimp or even glazed barbecue chicken wings. Line disappears as you approach a miserable woman in her late forties; she spends most of her time daydreaming of where she wanted to go in life. Her greasy untidy hair is contained in a hair net while her white apron shows signs of messy cooking.
Slushy slosh slides from the tipping ladle. The tubular mush splatters like a water balloon to the plastic red lunch tray. The mixture of unrecognizable mystery meats and brown gooey liquid has the smell of processed food. The strong spices, used to disguise that lackluster flavor, twist your stomach’s walls and scrunch your nose in repulsion.

You begin to walk through the grid of large rectangular tables with attached benches. After examining the tables for the table with the smallest amount of left over crumbs, you sit at a table and stare at your unappetizing food. But in the back of your mind, your innocent dog Pebbles stares up at you with puppy dog eyes. You begin to wonder if the deadly grave of a family member’s runaway pet is sitting in front of you. After a few moments of hesitation, you pick up the gritty scratched silverware and poke at the mixture and shovel some of the substance onto the spoon. Deep breath. Squinted eyes. Quick bite. Few hard chomps and combined with a gulp of relief. As you begin to prepare the next spoon full, a chunk of food catches your eye’s attention. Not a strand of hair. The swallowed food begins to bubble in your stomach and rushes up the esophagus.