The Skeptic Tank

At the other end of the street was a food cart set up on the sidewalk that Tom had never noticed before. He couldn't tell, but assumed they sold hot dogs, gyros, pretzels, etc. maybe bagels. One of those might hit the spot, but he had always been wary of eating street meat. His friend Paul had once tried to convince him that there was a much higher incidence of food poisoning at restaurants than at outdoor food carts, but Tom remained skeptical.

Still, perhaps the food cart would be the best option, given the paucity of other choices.

He took another sip of coffee and looked into the cup. He could barely see his shadowed reflection looking back up, looking like a ghost. Tom realized the coffee wasn't very good. He studied the cart, looking for a menu painted on the outside, but finding none, although it was hard to tell: the whole thing was painted like a gypsy caravan or aged carnival wagon, with stripes and ribbons concealing any writing that might be there. A number of people stood near the cart; some waiting solemnly, others eating quietly, holding their food in both hands near their faces with heads bowed.

It was odd to see so many people eating near each other, eating while standing, so close to the cart; Tom was used to people grabbing a bagel or something on their way to somewhere else, not stopping to enjoy the act of eating. One young woman appeared to have planned just that, however, and walked briskly away from the cart after paying and started crossing the street, coming closer to the cafe. She slowed however, at the curb, and sniffed her food. She then stopped in the street, unwrapped the foil wrapper, and took a bite. Her eyes became dull and her shoulders dropped as she chewed.

She continued chewing without swallowing until a car sped around the corner and braked hard to avoid hitting the woman. She looked around, clearly disoriented and began walking in a circle, eventually making it to the curb where she sat down and continued eating. Through all of this, none of the other people eating lifted their heads.

A man in a suit paid for his food and began eating it right away, barely leaving room for the next person, who politely nudged him out of the way. The man turned and Tom could see that he was crying as he ate.

Tom put his coffee down and stood. It looked like a number of the people eating were crying. He looked at the woman sitting on the curb and saw tears running down her face.

He walked slowly down the street so he could look into the cart.

Tom remembered a story he had heard once about a woman in Mexico City who made what was known as 'The Cake of Tears'. When she was a teenager her mother spent one afternoon teaching her an old family recipe for small, sweet cakes made with strawberries. The mother went out to the store to get more eggs and was hit by a car and killed on the way back. The daughter wept for a month and it was only on the one-year anniversary of her mother's death that she tried to make the cakes her mother had showed her. The rest of the family ate the cakes and began crying as soon as they tasted them. The daughter had poured so much sadness into them that anyone who took a bite was overcome with grief. But as she watched her family cry, each tear they shed made her feel better; her own despair distributed to the others through the cakes.

So Tom expected a despondant young woman in the cart, imbuing all her food with grief and despair, but as he got closer he saw instead a middle-aged man and an older woman inside, grinning happily as they prepared each order.

He walked to the end of the line, deciding that even if he didn't order anything, he wanted to at least understand why everyone was crying.

He had to wait about 15 minutes before he could order, and while he waited he studied the cart, the people inside, and the customers waiting. The cart had no menu that he could see. As he got nearer, he could almost overhear the old woman in the cart talking quietly to each new customer in turn. The customers were reverent, saying little, staring hopefully up at the old woman in the window as she looked them over and said quiet words to the middle-aged man (her son?) next to her as he chopped up vegetables and stirred a few small pots, grinning the whole time.

He leaned closer to the woman in front of him in line and whispered, "What do they serve here?" The woman smiled sadly without looking at him. "Whatever you need."

Tom peered in the window. "I doesn't look like they have much room in there."

"It's enough."

"You've been here before?"

"This morning was my first time. This will be the fifth time." A tear fell down her cheek. "I don't know how much more I can take."

"Hunh? What are you talking about?"

"You'll know soon."

Finally Tom had his turn. The old woman looked very old, much older than Tom had thought earlier. She said, "You're new." Tom nodded. She smiled. "In 5 words, describe your 8th birthday." Tom didn't know what to say. "Uh... cake. friends. presents, uh..."

The woman continued smiling and held out her hands. Tom raised his arms toward the window and the woman took hold of his hands, staring into his eyes. "Tell me about the first time you made love." Tom blushed and tried to laugh. "Uh... her name was Sam, uh Samantha. She had light brown hair. We thought we were in love, but..." The old woman waited for him to continue. "It wasn't as good as either of us had hoped."
The woman continued smiling and gently rubbed Toms hands in hers while studying his face. She turned to her son and said a few words in a language Tom didn't recognize.

The woman looked back at Tom and said, "Six dollars and eighty-two cents, please."

The woman who had been standing in front of him in line was nearby quietly eating her food: some kind of salad. She was crying, but not as much as the others. She looked up at Tom. "I envy you," She said. "The first time."

Tom fumbled in his pockets and found a twenty and some pennies, which he handed up to the window. The old woman made change and said a few more words to her son.

The food was ready and the woman held out a small package with both hands, and Tom remembered taking communion as a child. He took it reverently, and like the others before him, barely staggered out of the way of the next customer before he unwrapped the wax paper and breathed in deeply through his nose. Inside was a sandwich of some kind, not extraordinary-looking, but it smelled absolutely delicious. He took a bite and immediately every muscle in his body tensed and then relaxed. He began salivating ferociously and every part of his mouth was overwhelmed with flavor. Even his teeth felt good as they broke through the crust of the bread, into the soft filling inside. He felt weak and had difficulty standing.

But as exhilarating as the first bite was, the second bite was less so - still absolutely delicious, but not quite as incredible. He began eating faster, trying to replicate that first bite, then chewed more slowly, trying to savor the food more to capture that first feeling.

Before long he felt warm tears welling in his eyes. The first tear was for joy, for the pleasure of the most delicious experience he had ever had. All the others were from knowing that no matter how long he lived he would never have this moment again.

So he cried while he ate, as slowly as possibe to savor every molecule. He sat down against a chain-link fence near the cart, oblivious of everything around him. He finished the sandwich, buried his face in his arms and cried some more. Then he stood and got back in line.