All You Can Eat

A Short Story #1

Every morning starts the same with a jingle jangle outside the front door and a collection of flicks that return brightness to the world. We live in a building called the “Premium Chinese Buffet”. There are many of us here, more than there should be considering the amount of space we have. I have never counted the total because it would be impossible to keep everyone still for that long and I don’t really have the attention span for that.

As my eyes start adjusting to the abrupt return of light I’m reminded how filthy it is in here, I’m surprised that the feeders partake in their own eating here after seeing our pond has to be indicative of how their kitchen looks.

The highlight of every day is when the feeders bless us with food. Every day they give us these delicious hard brown dusty pellets retrieved from the red box. The feeder will insert a coin into the box and spin the handle. click crrrk crrrk tap tap tap tap tap, its a sweet sound that can be heard above all the clatter of a restaurant, kind of like how you can hear your name over the noise of a crowded room. The delicious sustenance hits the tray and collects in the palm of the feeder who usually tosses the goods one at a time to watch us fight for it.

We jump for this food like savages. I am not proud of it but we don’t have the same luxuries of food availability as the feeders do. My brothers and sisters climb over my back and I climb over theirs. Unlucky for me, I am one of the smaller ones. Often I will be right there, mouth open wide in a big “O” to give the feeder a target. The feeder will toss it to me and at the last second a big stupid ugly koi will snatch it out of the air and land on me, plunging me down to the murky bottom.

Outside our brawl for food, the pond is a pretty calm place. In my free time I observe the feeders eat. They usually come in groups, though not always. If a spot isn’t open the visiting feeders will wait with urgency, making sure to be ready the absolute second their name is called.

When the feeders make their first plate, they attack the buffet with bulging eyes and great enthusiasm, kind of how we fight over pellets. They return to their table with an amalgamation of cuisines piled into a heap that seems to defy the laws of physics.

Their second plate is lighter and more selective, a quiet acknowledgment of an overly ambitious start.

Plates three through six get dark. Feeders appear defeated, yet they continue to return to the trough. If hunger brought them to the Premium Chinese Buffet, it is no longer what keeps them here. Some deeper instinct has taken control.

When the feeders finally leave, the enthusiasm and play they entered with has vanished. They have traded their smiles for exhausted sighs as they cradle the undersides of their swollen bellies. It appears their anticipation was more enjoyable than the act of the feast.

For a species with such abundance, one that discards food by the pound, they eat as though there will never be enough. As though the memory of scarcity lingers somewhere beneath the surface and that this meal will be their last opportunity to eat.

I have watched thousands of feeders pass by this pond from every walk of life, but regardless of who they are or why they come, the ritual remains the same. Whatever teaches a feeder to eat this way must happen long before they arrive at the Premium Chinese Buffet.

Group by group the feeders slunk out the door. Chairs are stacked. Blinds are let down. The clatter fades before a final flick and the world returns to darkness.

Part 2 below!