It wasn’t a bowl so much as it was an ovular mechanism of physical metaphor. A bowl, by most detailed definition, was a round container of material that was too difficult to eat on a flat plate. This was a weapon of mass consumption that barely passed for a curved-in plate, let alone what the media was trying to tell us was an actual ‘bowl’. But put a dog in front of someone, tell them it’s a cat, and eventually people will believe that. But not me, I refused to call my lunch container a bowl. It was a cardboard oval of lies.
“Since what time have people called these burrito bowls?” I looked up quickly from my not-burrito-bowl and saw a man sitting across from me, perfectly settled and seated in a way that made it seem as if he’d been sitting there all along. His white toga was a bit out-of-place, hair a bit too long and beard almost collar-bone length, but in Chipotle he almost fit right in. “There is no burrito here, only confections.”
“Oh, hi Jesus.” I mumbled through a mouthful of rice and lettuce. He continued to ponder over the not-burrito not-bowl before him, tilting his head slowly one way and then the other, eyes softly curious and completely oblivious to my presence. ‘Rude Jesus.’ I thought to myself as he continued to eye the atrocity before him.
“Does this sort of thing happen often?” He mused, never looking straight at me but directing his inquiry in my direction. I chewed lazily and listened as some chef-in-training dropped something horrifically loud, the clattering making an unearthly lot of noise and making a few customers look over their metal-topped tables in curiosity. Jesus looked over for a bit, then back at his bowl.
“You mean calling something something it’s not and everyone else just kind of accepts it? Yeah, free thinking is kind of a commodity these days.” I answered even though he still wasn’t looking at me, his attention turning to the window right beside us.
“What is that?”
“That’s a bird eating a French fry.”
“No, what you mentioned before.” I kind of had to take a second to realize what he was saying, and then had to finish chewing because I figured it was a little rude to talk to Jesus with your mouth full.
“You know what Chipotle is but not free thought?” I asked, but he didn’t reply, just waited for his answer as he continued to look out the window, eyes following cars and teenagers. Still visually ignored, I sat back a little bit and explained as I poked at an old-looking piece of lettuce, “Free thought. You know, the personal freedom of thinking whatever the hell you feel like thinking. Controlling how you yourself sees the outside world and denying others the opportunity to have that same influence.”
“Who gave you that?” He asked, perplexed but only giving his reflection a furrowed brow. He looked innocently confused, but I couldn’t really focus with the light shining off of him, the others around us not seemingly really bothered, but still I was starting to have to squint.
“Jesus, your glowing is blinding me.” I deadpanned.
“Oh, I apologize.” He said absentmindedly and reached up, closing the blinds in front of the window and extinguishing that annoying glow. Without the window, he turned back to his meal and began to turn things over with his fork.
“No one, I guess,” I said, continuing with his question as I copied his fork-prodding movements, “Free-thought just kind of happened before people realized that they were all different and got scared out of it.”
“You think it is that important?” He asked, a piece of guacamole getting stuck on the end of his hair. I didn’t tell him. “That’s odd, I thought you all got scared of palpable things or things you thought would become palpable. To be afraid of something so trivial as ‘standing out’ when in reality you all are just tiny flecks of mass that have a rather insignificantly short lifespan compared to the rest of the universe. One would only ‘stand out’ for a few years before dying and being recycled back into the atmosphere just like everyone else.”
“Jesus, you’re depressing.” He raised his eyebrows a bit, as if not realizing how demoralizingly hopeless he could have just made someone, and then tossed forward absentmindedly,
“Oh, sorry.” But I wasn’t done. I sat back a little bit and crossed my arms, pointing my fork at him and frowning.
“You know, that’s not the point of ‘standing out’. People who stand out aren’t trying to mean something in this universe, they aren’t trying to massively change the fabric of space and time. They’re just trying to make what little time we have here not suck.”
“And how did you come to that conclusion?” Jesus asked before timidly trying a bit of rice and guacamole. People mulled about around us, a few talking mush and garble as they waited in line. I used them as background music as I uncrossed my arms and tapped my knee, trying to answer his question in the best way possible.
I thought for a few seconds, and then finally picked up my fork and shrugged.
“Well, there wasn’t any massive event in my life that totally changed me and formed me into the individual I am today. My life’s not nearly that exciting. One day I probably just looked at someone trying their hardest to fit in and said, ‘Damn, that looks miserable,’ and just stopped trying. I stopped trying to fit in because it kinda sucked and standing out was the aftereffect of not giving a crap. I’m not trying to change the world here.”
“And yet you think your opinion carries on to all others?” For the first time, he looked up at me. Right at me, eyes unblinking, a strand of guacamole-covered hair hanging next to his face and teetering dangerously close to his beard, finally acknowledging my existence. I paused for a second.
“Shut up and eat your conformity, Dad.”
