Talking With Freshmen Is A Tough Assignment
It’s just an assignment, I calmly tell myself. I’m supposed to interact with freshmen just for this column. After that I can cleanse my body from any of the foul organisms that might inhabit the school cafeteria.
As the fourth-period bell rings, swarms of people leave their classrooms with one thing on their mind — lunch.
I casually stroll down the hallway, making sure not to give any glances to my senior friends who took the same vow that I did upon junior graduation: “I (insert name) do solemnly swear to never place foot among thy cursed floor of our school’s cafeteria every again.”
As you can tell, this is a pretty heavy assignment. When I finally make it in the large, white, asylum-style doors, it feels as if I have breached security. It feels like glances come from all directions, and everyone’s eyes are gazing upon me. Or perhaps I’m just paranoid.
Two lines have formed, both approximately 40 freshmen long, one for pizza (or something that resembles it), the other for salad. I decide to be health-smart and get in the salad line.
Looking over the assorted faces of the crowd one can only wonder what some of these people are thinking. I notice a drib of drool coming from the mouth of a student behind me, so I decide to let him cut ahead. As I approach the salad cart, one thought comes to mind, “I’m not getting paid enough.”
I take a plate and fill it with lettuce, carrots and chocolate milk, then a lady working the cart gives me two crusty corn dogs (yum, yum). After forking over my last paycheck for my meal, I make my way over to the condiment line. I pour a little bit of ranch dressing on top and carefully glance over at some of the other students. Most of them are hovering over the few bottles of ranch dressing, like convicts given rations: once they get a little bit they take as much as they can.
I see plates completely drenched in ranch with only small crouton islands floating in the middle. Wow, the American Heart Bypass Association is going to make a killing off our generation, no pun intended.
I scan the cafeteria looking for a place to sit. This is an interesting task for anyone who doesn’t have a designated table. Eye contact must be made with the person already seated at the table, if his eyes say “yes” then you’re golden, if they look away then you’re out of luck. I decided to go to my old stomping grounds and see who the new “king of the hill” is. I take a seat next to a freshman reading a comic book. He looks at me with questioning eyes. Then a familiar face, a gal whom I once madly flirted with, sits across the table from me. She says nothing to me and begins conversing with the comic-reading freshman.
“Well” I think to myself “I guess that clears that up.” I sit eating my soggy salad and crunchy corn dogs while watching several freshmen take seats at the table and begin conversing with the sole gal.
Who am I kidding? These guys are flat out flirting with her. And to no surprise (because she did the same to me last year) she flirts back. Who ever said girls mature before guys must’ve been trying to get a favor from the girl, because what I witnessed was an act of cruelty. The guys make obscene comments to the girl, mostly about her breasts and if she has names for them. Then the “intelligent” freshman asks the question, “In diaper school do you learn how to make them, or fill them?” Eventually food begins to fly and obscenities are shouted, pretty standard from what I can remember of my younger, (ahem) less mature years.
As the bell rings I let out a sigh of relief. This has been a real good reminder of why I don’t do lunch in the cafeteria. Well at least I completed my assignment, maybe now I can ask for that pay raise.
I don’t have a nifty conclusion to this experience. I think my mind has been pretty weirded out by this whole experience.
Overall the freshmen weren’t too terrible, as compared to my days as king hell-raiser.
Perhaps there was some kind of lesson I was meant to learn from my encounter, but to be honest I think I’m still feeling woozy from overexposure.