COMPETITION
Sustenance for the spirit
My grandparents had sent me to Centrella to get an envelope of leek soup mix. As I strolled in, I ran into Sam walking out with an overstuffed grocery store bag. Sam was a regional personality, always involved in some horrible mischievousness. I do not assume he even mosted likely to institution.
“What remains in the bag?”
“Hey. Simply some necessities for my following huge act.”
“Act?”
“Yeah. Hey, why don’t you feature me? It’s all going down at Hamburger King.”
“Nah, I got to get some soup mix.”
“Soup,” he jeered. “Soup is for the hungry. Feature me and make some art.”
“I don’t understand–”
“Please. You’ll regret it when you’re old if you miss this.”
I rolled my eyes and followed him. Sam located us a seat near the bathrooms, just out of view of the cashiers, who eyed us suspiciously as we made our method around.
“Look,” Sam whispered. “I’m gon na go get a soda, simply to make points legitimate. You view the bag.”
With Sam getting his soft drink, I took a peek in the bag. Family members size bottle of chocolate syrup, outing sized squeeze container of yellow mustard, value sized spicy Italian dressing. “What the hell?” I questioned aloud.
Sam loaded his cup with a hit of each soft drink the fountain had to offer, after that took a long swig of the concoction. He recoiled, put the unfinished soft drink down and looked me appropriate in the eyes. “You understand me, right?” he asked.
“Kinda.”
Of course you know me. Adolescent overdue, no abilities, no future, right?”
“Natch.”
“Well, today that all adjustments. Feature me.”
Sam got up and started strolling towards the washroom. Where was this going? Grudgingly, I followed a couple of steps behind. Instantly, he dropped in his tracks, reversed and intoned,” Bring the bag ”
Sam scoped the stalls. All vacant. He dragged a tall garbage can before the door, to prevent it shut, and after that he got to work. He put together all the bottles on the walk over the sinks by the personnel NECESSITY LAUNDRY HANDS indicator. After some consideration, he got hold of a few of the containers, and with a lengthy sigh, pushed in the initial stall door and started to spray the wall surfaces with Pollock-like sprays of condiment color. Earthy browns, neon yellows, and warning blots of red and green peppers fundamental to premium store-bought zesty Italian dressing covered the walls and assaulted my sensibilities.
“Sam! What the heck are you doing?”
“I’m living life! Wasn’t it Nietzsche that said– and I’m paraphrasing right here– the greatest satisfaction in life comes from living precariously?”
“We’re going to prison,” I groaned. “I’m your device!”
“You worry way too much. Just a fascist would certainly place us behind bars for committing art!”
“That’s it,” I claimed, dragging the garbage can off the beaten track. “I’m leaving.”
“Wait!” Sam followed me out. “Something’s still missing. This is not right.” He stopped and made one last demand of the cashier. “Give me every catsup package you have.”
