I am in line again. Just as predicted I can smell the same thing that I do every week. I can't really describe what that is exactly but it is some mixture of old people's perfume, moth balls, and vaseline mixed with stagnant gravy. You see, my parents drag me to this small town cafeteria every sunday after church. We stand in a long line where brick and and aged mortar keep us in file on the right and the troths of food line paralleled on the left. There is a yellow florescent glow lighting the atmosphere. It is then reflected by the serving utensils and the bars guarding the prized food to the eager generations. To top it off the workers serving the food seem to resemble parole workers who are covered in tattoos, hair nets and are just 'serving their time'. You can hear a chatter of noise just behind and slightly to the left of my family and I where the victors that survive the line go and take their food to the open seating. As I hide behind whatever I can from the embarrassment of anyone who might recognize me I realize that today, I am far from a victor. I am a prisoner of war and one day I will tell stories of this epic battle.
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