Page 41 - The Gluckman Occasional Number Eight

She returned pushing a cart laden with large plastic serving
bowls and platters. Each of us received the same huge helpings,
rudely dropped or slopped on our plates, of sauerkraut (gaggingly
sour), Brussels sprouts (smelling worse than any cabbage up
close), macaroni and cheese (burned top and bottom,
mucilaginous in the middle) and a split broiled hot dog drowned
in tongue-blistering mustard. About as unappetizing a meal this
side of a cannibals’ feast. I cannot apply my usual rating system
to these dishes: were I to give them negative stars some myopic
reader would miss the minus sign.
My first reaction to this steaming mess was to passively resist. I
determined not to pick up knife or fork, and either to leave the
premises at first opportunity or force myself to awaken from an
obvious nightmare. That stubbornness was my next offense.
“Why aren’t you eating?” snapped the looming giant. “Aren’t
you hungry? Have you been snacking on junk food?” His
narrowed eyes bored directly into mine: he had just been
screaming at the back of the man across from me. The poor
fellow had committed the sin of briefly resting an elbow on the
table.
“Yes, sir—I mean: no sir,” I stammered, all resolve dissolved.
He stood his ground forbiddingly until I picked up my utensils
and essayed a bit of the hot dog. Instantly my mouth was on fire.
I reached for the glass: it was made of some very slippery
material, and almost tipped. Luckily I had both hands free and
was able to get it to my lips without spilling a drop. I might have
been better off letting it tumble. Not water, but terribly tart
unsweetened cranberry juice bathed my burning mucus
membrane. I puckered violently as my eyes teared.
When I could see again, my tormentor had moved on to berate
another of his guests for letting a bit of sauerkraut slide off her
fork. I saw that no choice was offered, no escape without
cleaning my plate. My nameless friend had wondered if I were
really up for an unusual repast. “It’s my job,” I’d flippantly
replied. Now I know better. But do not let me discourage you, if
this is exactly the sort of place you’ve been looking for and could
not find. Just don’t ask me for directions: go see your shrink.
By now you’ve figured out that I foolishly ventured into a den
of sadomasochists. Bondage and discipline, as a sort of therapy