The Last Supper
Written by: Frank Cormier
I had surveyed the restaurant from my booth, searching for anyone I might know prior to ordering supper, neatening the condiments. I’m new in town and haven’t gotten to know many people. “C’est la vie,” I silently said to my ice-cold mug of Miller Lite before taking a hearty sip. “I have plenty of time. I’m still young. There’s always tomorrow.” That’s the problem with youth and tomorrow, I lament: we’re too naïve in believing that there will always be one.
“It’s seven o’clock. I should get something to eat,” I thought to myself earlier, which is why I am sitting in this restaurant now writing on paper napkins, choking. Being hungry and impatient is not a great combination if you want something good to eat. If only I had thought more about my choice of restaurants instead of my appearance: CK jeans, Abercrombie t-shirt, clean underwear (thanks Mom), flip-flops, and unshaven. Somewhat hip, I believe.
Hmm… I can’t seem to get anyone’s attention, not even my waitress. Maya is a beautiful brunette woman, late twenties. She obviously works out a lot because her legs look like two stainless steel bands. Perfectly smooth, perfectly shaped, and perfectly strong. She has not come by since my buffalo chicken tenders were served. I wish I knew more people.
Why am I giving a play-by-play of this dining experience, dear reader of my note? Because I believe this to be my last dining experience; ever. Not by choice I might add! Completely by accident – a chicken bone accident.
You see, chicken tenders are NOT supposed to have bones in them. In the batch I got, one did. And wouldn’t you know it was the first one I bit into. Actually, I didn’t quite bite into it: I kind of swallowed it, whole. Chewing would have been the right maneuver here, but I was so hungry, I completely forgot how to eat. Now I am sitting here with a chicken bone (I believe it to be a rib bone, since chicken tenders are made from chicken breasts), lodged in my throat. I am not able to scream for help, but am still conscious enough (for now) to write this note.
Oh crap, the note! It won’t just be a written testimony of my plight, it will effectively be my last will. I should list those things I want to bequeath to my loved ones. Okay, here goes: my Schwinn ten speed goes to my brother Phillip. No wait, scratch that, I’ll instead give it to my nephew Cory. Sorry Phillip, but you live too far away and the shipping costs alone would be more than the bike is worth.
What else do I have? I’m drawing a blank. My brain must be starving for oxygen. I can’t think straight. I really wish I knew someone here. I hope my writing is legible. I would hate to find out when I’m on the other side that my estate got tied up in probate.
Focus man! Focus! I bequeath – leave – give to my mother, uh – all my clothes. They are clean. (Well most of them anyway.) What else do I have? My sight is blurry. Shit! I just tore the napkin. Damn buffalo sauce stain! I need to write that part again.
Why did I pick this restaurant to have my last supper? Why did I choose chicken tenders? Even on death row the inmate gets to pick a fancy dinner. I should have gone out for lobster. No wait… I’m allergic to lobster. Damn it! What else could I have chosen? Think man! Think!
Stop! Get back on task, CJ.
What else is there to leave for someone? I know: I, Colby Joseph, bequeath my Anime novels to the landlord, Max. No need to rummage through my stuff looking for them after I’m gone. They are stored in the bathroom closet in a plastic tote labeled, “Periodicals.” (My mother always told me my obsessive compulsiveness would come back to haunt me.)
I feel weak. A pleasant calm has washed over me. It’s liberating…
Oh wait, here comes the waitress! I’m saved! Stop writing! Stop, writing! Stop! Writing! Stop….
Copyright (C) 2017 by Frank Cormier. All rights reserved.