The Plate

[I lied. Yesterday's exercise was bad enough that I decided not to be brave and post it, contrary to what I had promised myself. Really, I'm okay with that. Today's exercise will be the last one of this consecutive series of improvised fiction. Thanks for playing. And thanks to Megan for providing the formats. Nicely done.]

Exercise #5: Plate

[Really, that was the format. Just "plate."]

The plate is a warm and happy plate. It sits in a stack of other plates, third from the top, basking in the residual heat left over from the dishwashing it and its friends has just received. The plates do not speak to one another – they are plates, and cannot talk. It waits, expectantly, as the two above it are removed by the chef’s greasy hands and placed on the stainless-steel counter by the grill. The plate wonders if the anticipation of being next might actually be better than it being your turn, but it thinks ahead to the glorious service to the call of dinner that awaits it, and it decides that while being at the front of the line is certainly exciting, actually performing its duties as a plate is a much more fulfilling moment in its daily life. Mainly, though, it thinks this:

I love being a plate. I love the roundness of my shape, the solidity and weight of my construction. I love the tiny, unique chip on my underside but also the perfect sterile whiteness of my eating surface. I love being a working plate, simple and sturdy, a plate for the people, instead of an overdesigned, thin, effete plate at a snotty restaurant. I love the dark, scalding cleanliness of the dishwasher, and the poised orderliness of being one of many plates in a tall, symmetrical stack awaiting the beginning of the dinner rush. I love the solitary slow afternoons when the lunch crowd has gone, and I have a chance at being the lone plate in use, serving a sole diner who has wandered in for a 3 p.m. meal. I love the sizzle of burgers on the grill, the rumbling crackle of fries in the fryer, and the smell of the disinfectant that cleans the counters. It is good that I do not have a face, because the joy of being a plate is so strong that I would smile and crack myself. I love being a plate.

And suddenly, it is time. With one hand, the cook grabs the plate and the one underneath it while raising the fry basket out of the hot oil with the other hand. The plate nearly vibrates with excitement. A fresh load of hot fries are dumped on it, followed by the bottom half of a toasted hamburger bun, two patties dripping with melted cheese, and the top of the bun. A long slice of pickle is added, a pungent garnish that the plate initially hated, but years of familiarity with the wedge have bred not contempt but acceptance and love. Covered in food and reaching a fever pitch of joy, the plate is set up in the window underneath the blinding heat lamps, right next to the plate that had been underneath it, but before it can enjoy the weird, all-encompassing orange light for long, it is snatched by the waitress, who turns, one plate in each hand, and moves swiftly out of the kitchen and into the dining area.

The plate, whose soul is positively singing at this, the moment of its penultimate happiness, passes the lunch counter, where a row of people are crammed onto the stools, hunched, eating, reading newspapers or staring blankly at their food. In the waitresses’ hands it rounds the corner by the cash register, awaiting the moment when it will come to rest on a hard Formica table top, be readjusted by the diner to the correct eating position, salted and ketchuped, and fulfill its ultimate purpose of providing food. The plate’s contentment with its role in the universe is immeasurable.

The waitress turns the final corner, bearing down on the awaiting diners, but just before she reaches their table, a careless child dashes out in her path and runs squarely into her legs. She reaches out a hand to stop herself from falling, and lets go of the plate. It is launched terrifingly into midair, its cheeseburger, fries, and pickle tumbling away into empty space, the hard tile floor rushing dizzily upwards.

The plate, spinning end over end in the slow-motion clarity of sudden catastrophe, is not afraid. It is thinking this:

I am strong. My construction is solid, and my spirit is unbreakable. The joy of my life will keep me whole. I am simple, true, and pure. I bring food. I am a plate.