Lunchtime at UCSD: The Perpetual Postponement

There was an endless road of other students in front of me. I was hidden in the crowd. People were expressionless, moving forward mechanically and slowly. I stretched my neck to look forward, but I could not see anything past the heads in the crowd. The overcast sky was wrapped in mist, and a neon sign seemed to be suspended in the air, flashing faintly.

My legs kept dragging me forward, step by step. I’ve lost track of time—how long have I been here? When will I reach my destination? I threw these questions into my head, but no answers could be called forth. The rusty sign hanging above read, “Five minutes to go.” I vaguely remembered my destination, a counter that was supposed to be stocked with steaming food. The steam drifted into my mind and materialized into a grilled pork chop. With its charred and crispy skin, the pork coated with BBQ sauce gradually became visible. A new wave of energy surged into my legs, giving me a shove forward.

The sign began to flash and finally changed to “Working on it.” I fumbled my way down to where my stomach should have been, but I couldn’t feel anything. Instead, I felt a huge bottomless pit there, and a vague throbbing pain came from it. The people around me dissolved into a gray void that seemed to melt into the surrounding mist. I could only read the words dancing in front of my eyes: “Waiting to be released.” What does this mean? Waiting? Have I not been waiting? Released? When will the release be? I was still moving forward, but by this time the crowd was shoving me forward, and I could no longer turn back or escape.

Finally, I thought I heard my name, and the smell of grilled pork lingered in the air and pulsed through my body. I felt like I was going to be swallowed up by my stomach just as it screamed for more! And more! My legs were unable to support my body any longer, and I collapsed in place. The last thing I saw was the word “Ready.” Its scarlet red letters shone like flying flags, seducing, parading, and celebrating. I almost pictured a roasted and greased pork hurtling toward me. I let out a deep breath of relief and closed my eyes in frustrated contentment.

A full line gradually appeared on the sign, “Almost ready,” it read.

Chloe Sun is an Arts and Culture Writer and Conch Writer for The Triton.