delicious disaster.

I was just sitting down the dinner this evening when I heard a clamoring on the stairs. Somebody was struggling to carry a heavy load I presumed. I live in an apartment that is intermixed with office space, so visitors aren’t exactly infrequent.

I tore opened the box of Ritz Whole Wheat crackers settled on the table before me. A trip to the grocery store had prompted me to buy only things that were on sale, and only things that were discounted with my brand new Mr. Z’s supermarket card. It was a card that I got pressured into signing up for during my last trip to the market, and I am now determined to make it worth my time.

Just as I was preparing to take my first bite, the stranger on the stairs rounded through the doorway and into the kitchen. It wasn’t a face I’ve seen around Kirkridge before.

“Oh hi!” the stranger said, who was clearly more startled than I. He carried a box full of food which he was having trouble negotiating through the tight doorway.

“Howdy,” I replied. In a moment I became incredibly aware of how ridiculous I looked. I was dressed to the nines in my work clothes, hovering over the treasures from my grocery store adventure: a tin can of smoked oysters, a tub of turkey pepperoni, a pack of vanilla pudding and V8 Vegetable juice poured into a coffee mug with ice. Behind me I could hear the humming of the microwave as my Green Giant “Healthy Weight” frozen vegetables were approaching edible temperatures.

“I’m just eating dinner,” I blurted. “It’s well rounded … see?”

The stranger inched toward me, setting the box on the counter behind me.

“Carbs,” I said pointing to the Ritz crackers. “Protein, fat, vegetables, more vegetables and…” I hesitated. “Pudding.”

The man smiled kindly and I knew what he was thinking. “Where’s the fruit?” And just as I was about to explain that I had eaten a sour peach earlier that day…

“I’m Bob, from the bookstore,” he said.

I have always envied people whose names form alliteration with what they do or where they live. Polly from Palmetto. Tim the taxidermist. Amy of Anchorage. Trish the Tightrope Walker. The only way I’ll ever form alliteration is if I go into the osculating fan business – or move to Omaha.

“Ahh… OK. I’m Olivia.”

“I already ate dinner,” Bob said. “I was trying to find the mall everybody’s been talking about.”

“The Stroud mall?”

“Is that what it’s called?”

“I don’t know … I’ve only been here two weeks.”

“Oh, you’re the intern.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I need to get to work. Down in the bookstore.”

“Right, bye!”

“Bye.”

And with that, I turned back to my meal. One smoked oyster from the tin, one pepperoni slice, one Ritz cracker… CRUNCH.

The taste of my final year as a poor college intern: Salty.