I've Never Had Taco Del Mar and Pocky's Just O.K.

Wednesday, a Taco Del Mar soda sits on Professor Nofziger's table as she apologizes for including a writing prompt in an assignment that tended toward witchcraft. She is very sorry.



Wednesday night, I am hungry in my dreams--haven't eaten for days. I ride along a street surrounded by merchandise and food stalls in New York (but it seems more like Calcutta) in an unmanned rickshaw. I am very hungry. Then I see the neon beacon of forthcoming satisfaction, blinking in red and green letters: "TACO DEL MAR." With my mind, I steer the rickshaw left and squint at the menu. What will I order? But my rickshaw buzzes past the counter, stopping at the next stall, "FEDEX KINKOS." The man running the Kinko's is apparently the best copy man in New York, and I'm lucky I found his stall, how many copies do I want and do I want them on colored or white lazerprint sheets? Colored, of course. My fifty copies of purple fliers advertising Taco Del Mar shoot out of a slot in the wall, into the basket of the bike I'm now riding. I ring the bell, say thanks, and ride on.



I am still very, very hungry. Soon, I am riding along the same street. I see the Taco Del Mar, the FedEx Kinko's. This time, I'll be ready. As I pedal faster, I look down and count the change in my bike basket. Good, I have enough for... enough for what? What will I order? I look up so that I may examine the menu, but I do not see the girl waiting to take my order at the Taco Del Mar. I see the best copy man in New York. All right, colored! Out shoot fifty copies of pink fliers advertising Taco Del Mar as I slide over the pavement, now a two-dimensional figure. I will always be hungry.








Thursday, a timid girl brings me Pocky, chocolate-covered biscuit sticks, as a thank you for helping her with her paper in the writing center. I can't accept...I should not eat all of these myself. No, you must accept...I have many boxes in my room. I accept.



Thursday night, I walk through a sparse park in my dreams. I find a newspaper machine alone in the middle of a grass patch. It does not dispense newspapers; it does dispense boxes of Pocky. The Pocky is free. The dispenser begins to shoot boxes of Pocky at me unrelentlessy. I protest. I cannot accept this Pocky... I should not eat it all by myself! It does not listen. Pocky.