Every damn day I get a salad from the salad bar at work. Occasionally, I'll stray into a pasta or a sandwich, but I think it's fair to say that four out of five days, I'm standing in line, waiting to squeeze a variety of vegetables and cheese with a set of salad tongs, and drop them into the bottom half of a clear plastic container. Doesn't it sound appetizing? Mmmm...plastic. But it's inexpensive, and, more importantly, it's fast, which I really appreciate for a number of reasons, not the least of which is the fact that in order to maintain my non-smoker status, I have to eat when I want to eat. If I don't, I turn into a bitch on wheels (as someone once said), or I just feel miserable. If you get between me and my food, you will know it, even if I don't say a word.

Apparently.

So yesterday I got sick of the salad bar. For whatever reason, I simply could not deal with another day of vegetables in plastic. Instead I decided to order a veggie burger from the grill. Oh yes, I know I was living on the edge. I knew what kind of risks I was taking. But I needed something different. I was having a rough non-smoking day, and I thought something with a little more substance might make the day go a little smoother. In fact, every part of my body was ringing with a nicotine fit, from my scalp to the balls of my feet. (Later in the day I even had to shut my office door and do stretching exercises just to stimulate some sort of endorphin rush.) So while I needed something a little more self-indulgent, I wasn't in the state of mind to wait a little longer.

Now, I've admitted that I was feeling impatient, but I'll never express those feelings in the company cafeteria. Everyone is under the spotlight in the cafeteria. How you order food is a reflection of your entire essence, particularly from the grill guy, who is mildly entertaining albeit crazy on his good days, and a complete fucker on his bad days. And yet, we tolerate him, we bow to him, in fact. I have never understood why until today: We are subject to his whim.

We stand, slack-jawed, in line, waiting patiently and quietly. We do not say, "This is the third time I've told you that I want lettuce, tomato, and mayonnaise on my sandwich. Are you high?" We do not question the order in which he takes grilled sandwich requests, which seems arbitrary at best. We do not wonder out loud why it takes five minutes to make one grilled cheese, and twenty minutes to make another grilled cheese. We do not tell him that it is none of his business if we have a boyfriend. We are well-behaved, because no one wants to make trouble in the cafeteria.

I will say nothing of the cashiers or the women who serve the main entrees, both of whom like to critique loudly what you order. At this point, I completely keep my head down when dealing with them and make no eye contact whatsoever. Is it any wonder I favor the salad bar?

Anyway: yesterday, grill, veggie burger, nicotine fit. I ordered my burger. I stood. I waited. A line built up next to me, including someone I worked with briefly a few months back. We chatted. We have friends in common, so we can stray outside of the typical work dialogue. I waited some more. We ran out of things to say. He had yet to order, so he was distracted anyway, his eyes darting from me to the grill guy. He was waiting to be called on by the grill guy. He didn't say, "Uh, I haven't ordered yet?" He just waited.

In fact, he waited with me the entire time I was standing there, which means he likely had another twenty minutes to wait after I was gone. Apparently he doesn't mind waiting. Apparently everyone in line has forgotten that we live in the New York City, the one city in the world where it is acceptable to request faster service. Apparently I have forgotten it, too.

In the cafeteria, I am a sheep.

So as I waited, the nicotine fit flash-flooded through my body. As I usually do in those scenarios, I exhaled and inhaled deeply. (Someone told me to do that the first day I quit, and I'm still not sure if it helps, but at least it gives me something to do.) I saw the grill guy look at me, and take note of my facial expression. Fuck him, I thought. If I want to breathe in and out, I can. Everyone else is breathing in and out, right?

And then he said, "I heard what you said."

I realized he was talking to me.

"What? I didn't say anything."

"Yes you did. You said, 'Hurry up.'"

Everyone in line stared at me. What had I done to anger him?

"No I didn't," I said. "I didn't say a thing."

"Yes you did."

I turned to the guy I knew standing next to me in line, and looked to me for help.

"I think he's putting words in your mouth," he mumbled.

Say it louder!, I thought, and then I realized he wouldn't. He was still waiting to order! He was scared like everyone else. It had taken him this long just to make sure the grill guy knew he existed, he wasn't going to blow it by openly disagreeing with him.

I turned calmly to the grill guy and met his eye.

"I didn't say anything," I said carefully.

"Well maybe you didn't say it out loud," he said.

He then handed me my sandwich and said softly, "I'm sorry you had to wait so long for your food."

But it was too late then. Everyone in line had heard what he said, but no one heard his apology. I was branded for life.

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