Lurking in the Lunchroom

I stand, purveying the room full of people like some Native American standing high on a cliff overlooking a valley full of early American soldiers.  I watch, intrigued, wondering, pondering as the melee of humans interacts with one another, most oblivious to my presence.  I move slowly from one side of the room to the other, monitoring their actions, watching their antics, considering their mischief.  From experience I know how they think.  It’s a game, a game of wits, a game of chance, a game of “can I get away with it?”  Curious eyes dart from one table to the next as these humans, young humans, look for their next target, their next victim, their next love. 

            Whispers drift from the tables like steam on a cold December morning while boisterous outcries like wounded animals cause a cacophony of sound to fill the room.  Moving slowly, my eye is attracted to a young male full of mischief who sits waiting and watching.  His hands lie hidden beneath the edge of the table, a plastic catapult at the ready filled with peas from the his lunch.  His face is solemn, a face of innocence as he watches his prey two tables away.  I stop to watch this interplay of hunter versus hunted waiting to see if he will notice me 20 paces behind him.  His eyes focused, his attention riveted on his unknowing target, he fails to sense my presence. 

            Time ticks slowly by, the lunch period quickly coming to a close.  The hunter becomes agitated, nervous, antsy.  His patience is growing thin.  Finally his target moves.  He aims, slowly moving his hands to the precipice of the table top and with one swift motion releases the tiny green balls.  They sail over the heads of those sitting around him.  They laugh, heads thrown back in jocularity unaware of this action.  The balls hit their mark, a tiny splatter of green ooze drips from the face of his target.  Immediately he gets up, his face stoic and stern, his attention now focused on others in the room, his nonchalance giving him away.  I circle the table, tapping him on the shoulder.  He turns, his face a face of innocence, a look of surprise emanating from his eyes.  A discussion ensues, his innocence pleaded before me.  His steely eyes begin to tarnish, a crack of guilt slowly emerging.  Still, he stands his ground claiming he’s been framed.  I get on the two-way and call for backup.  Security arrives.  A brief explanation is shared and after a short trip to the security office, video of this young man’s exploits is shown to him.  His concrete demeanor melts like snow on a hot day puddling on the desk in front of us.  Eyes drooping, body slumping, he admits his error.  I leave him in the hands of the security “god” and return to the lunchroom.

            The bell has sounded.  The room lies empty, except for a few piles of garbage here and there that dot the landscape.  Wandering through this maze of tables, I pick up the few items that have been left as souvenirs by thoughtless youth or by those in haste who have been oblivious to their garbage-toting responsibilities.  On one table I find a unique sculpture of oranges, grapes, a milk carton, toothpicks, half a sandwich and some raisins that looks remarkably like me.  I stop to chuckle and think to myself, they are watching me!