Basically, fuck tofu. Fuck that soft mushy bean curd shit all the way to hell.
Happy Thoughts by Alec Cizak
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The potatoes were awful.
If any of the managers in the cafeteria saw Sam frowning,
he’d lose his job. A Polite Penalty would follow.
Sheila, one of his neighbors on the assembly line, plopped
her tray down across from him.
“Happy thoughts, Sam.”
He forced himself to smile. “Sweet thoughts to you, Sheila.”
“Oh,” she said, “sweet thoughts to you, Sam.” She fanned
herself and blushed.
Tom, a manager, walked by and nodded. “Bunny rabbits and
rainbows,” he said to everyone at the table.
The manager stared at Sam. “Happy thoughts?”
“Sunshine and lemonade,” said Sam. The aftertaste from the
potatoes made him want to vomit. That would have been a complaint. A definite
Polite Penalty.
“You flatter me,” said the manager.
Sam watched his colleagues eat the potatoes and tofu steak. He
hadn’t even tried the “meat.” If it had been cooked right, the foul memory of
the potatoes would ruin the pleasure of chewing the steak and imagining what it
must have been like when people were allowed to eat animals.
He nudged Jim Tank, a younger employee. Forced eye contact. “Snowflakes
and sugar cubes?” he said.
Jim nodded. He spoke with steak in his mouth. “Green grass
and jelly beans.”
Sam watched him shovel the meat into his mouth with clumps
of potato. His coworker’s eyes watered. Everyone at the table, it seemed,
pretended there was nothing wrong with the potatoes.
The managers patrolled the aisles greeting workers and making
sure no one was in a negative mood.
What if I spoke up?
The Polite Police would take him away.
He imagined his wife, Gwen, getting the news. In public, she
would have to shrug and say, “Rain drops and grub worms.” She would have to
live with the comments made by others—“Rotten eggs and mildew?” And perhaps, in
sorrow, she might utter something incorrect. The Polite Police would then have
to destroy her.
Pom-poms and pussy cats. No need to risk a tear for things
that might be (or could have been … or should be).
There was the question of death, however. If you were
charged with a Polite Penalty, you were sent to the cremation plant and that
was that. What happened afterwards? Sam thought about it all the time. He
couldn’t discuss it with anyone. None of the picture books or television shows
they were allowed to watch dealt with the subject. It seemed that he would
merely cease to exist. Scary.
“Sam,” said Sheila, “Easter eggs and finger-paint?” She
nodded at his plate.
“Oh,” he said, “country roads and puppy dogs.” He sawed
through the meat with a plastic knife.
His colleagues watched him eat.
He closed his eyes and shook his head and said, “Sweet,
sweet thoughts.” He pictured slicing into a real piece of steak. His father had
said that in the old days, people ordered it rare, and blood leaked onto the
plate. When Sam told him that sounded “creepy,” his father laughed and said he
felt sorry for him. “Americans,” he had said, “are just about finished being
human.”
Sheila shoved a forkful of potatoes in her mouth, closed her
eyes, and, quite obviously, forced herself to swallow without chewing.
“Poodles and pussy cats?” said Sam.
Sheila slammed her fists on the table. “Sour grapes and crab
grass!”
The managers looked over at their table. One of them pulled
out a cell phone and dialed three numbers.
Sheila cried.
Dangerous.
Sam and his co-workers stared at their plates and munched on
the terrible food.
The doors to the cafeteria opened and a dozen Polite Police
dressed in pitch-black uniforms charged in. They spoke with the managers and
then stormed over to Sheila. Their heads were covered in sleek, black helmets
with opaque visors. They carried shock sticks and machine guns.
When Sam’s father had still been alive, he had called the
newly formed Polite Police “the gestapo.” A reference to a time and place
Americans no longer cared about. Sam repeated the comparison to his teacher and
the Polite Police destroyed his father that night.
Sam scooped some potatoes into his mouth.
The Polite Police beat Sheila to the ground with their shock
sticks. Once they had their boots on her, they gave her some electricity. Her
screams turned into gargles and then silence.
The potatoes began to taste much, much better.
The Polite Police dragged Sheila’s limp body from the
cafeteria.
Sam finished his food just before the bell rang, signaling
time to go back to the assembly line.
Jim Tank said, “Happy thoughts?”
“Sweet, sweet, sweet thoughts,” said Sam.
