Food Diary

     “I would like a human stomach for lunch,” I request.  My subordinates look at me as though I were a lunatic, which always bemuses me.  “Yes.  As you all know, I’ve traveled the world and am somewhat of a food connoisseur, as they say.  I think a human stomach would put my diary in a ‘fully saturated’ sort of place.  I have eaten frog legs, pig intestines, cow tongue, veal, sheep eye, polar bear liver, whatever it is Spam is made of, and all other sorts of animals.  But a human stomach I find would complete the anatomy of my personal diary, don’t you agree, Watson?  I also find that eating it for lunch would make it a more meaningful affair as I would ingest it solitarily.”

I call my assistant, whose name is Frank, Watson, both because I find Frank to be a generic name lacking any sort of charisma and because he helps me solve my own personal mysteries. 

“I suppose that’s true, sir, but the stomach of a human?” Watson asks.  “It can’t be done, sir, and…”

“Can’t!  What have I told you about using that word with me, Watson?  It is never a matter of whether something that I wish can or cannot be done.  The matter at hand is that I want it, and I ask that you exhaust all possible means of attaining of my want before you tell me that it cannot be done.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to assist you in this matter, sir, as my conscience won’t allow it.”

I scan the faces in the room and see that they are all looking down in compliance with Watson.  From the desk in the center of the room, I look out at my view and notice that my office is right in the middle of town, and that it is the tallest building in sight.  Remarkable. 

“Alright, then!  This will be my own venture.  Don’t worry, lads, I won’t hold this against you in the least.  In fact, I imagine that if I succeed in this feat and, at the end of three hours, I find myself putting someone else’s stomach into my own…well, it will be something like that of poetry!  Now, continue with your tasks for the rest of the day.  Watson will direct you in my absence.  Wish me luck!”

I exit my skyscraper and look left, right, left again, knowing both ways are paved for my success.  Left it is!  I walk swiftly and smile at those who pass me.  I’m also enthralled to feel the sun beating down on the top of my head as I rarely get to enjoy the outdoors.  I make a mental note to relieve Watson of taking my mail to the post office every day because it is just the perfect distance to enjoy a brisk walk.  As a businessman, I am no stranger to suits.  Today I chose my best grey one, complete with my favorite purple shirt and a tie that pulls it all together.  Nothing lies in my pockets but six hundred dollar bills and a matchbox, which I take out to light the cigar I snatched from my office.  I decide it’s best to go door-to-door with my request. 

I walk toward the nearest neighborhood and notice something else: a billboard displaying my face next to a caption that reads, “Meet the heir of the Duerny fortune.” 

“Thank you, billboard!” I exclaim aloud.  Now, people will recognize me and my hope is they will take my personal visit as an honor and aid in my quest.  I knock on the first door, a meager house.  A woman of short stature, around my own age, answers and gives me an honest smile.

“Hello, miss, how are you doing today?  I myself am swell and I first would like to thank you for opening your door on such a beautiful morning.”

“Of course, Mr. Duerny!  So unexpected to see you standing in my doorway as I’ve seen your face on that poster downtown,” she replies.

“Yes, I do seem to be more recognizable!  Now I won’t waste your time so I’ll cut straight to it.  You see, I wish to have a human stomach for lunch this afternoon and I have come into town and to your door to see if you could help me.  Do you know anyone who is scheduled to die this morning?” 

Just as soon as I ask her an earnest question she slaps me in the face and slams the door.  Truly puzzled, I persevere and decide that the hospital is the best place to find my main lunch course.  I walk the mile or so to the hospital and make my way to the morgue, which was conveniently located one floor below.  The key is to act like I know where I’m going and what I’m doing.  I have proven several times that people are much less likely to question my presence if I carry myself in this way, as I will prove again today.  I rehearse my speech on the way to the hospital and it really is admirable. 

I throw open the swaying doors of the morgue to find a young doctor removing various body parts from a carcass, taking notice of the pure magic of it all.  Just as she begins to say, “Excuse me, sir!” I start my speech, which goes like this:

“Mam, I would first like to tell you that I think you are really very pretty and whether you can help me or not I will still believe this to be true.  Before you have the chance to remove me from this room I ask that you let me give you my reasoning on my coming down to your morgue and a request that I deem simple and I hope you will agree.  I woke up this morning thinking about all the wonderful foods I have had the pleasure of eating throughout my life.  I have eaten every animal imaginable, except for one.  I have yet to eat any part of a human other than my own fingernails.  As I discovered this a few hours ago, I knew that I needed to discover the taste of my own kind.  So I request that you remove the stomach of the character that you are elbow-deep in, and donate it to my lunch for today.  If you were to ask me why I would like the stomach out of all the organs, I would tell you that the stomach seems to me like the gas tank of a car, the ink in a pen, and other kinds of fuel holders.”

Ten minutes later I am a half-mile away from the hospital carrying a human stomach!  As it turns out, organs that cannot be donated are simply thrown away after careful analysis.  My speech was unnecessary, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.

I was correct about the experience equating with poetry.  As for the stomach, I found it bland.