Over a Silver Table

“I have a proposal for you,” she stated with all the personality of a beige Toyota Camry. One of the good Camrys of coure, an LE with six cylinders. But even a six-cylinder Camry LE won’t be confused with a Mustang. Definitely not by Richard, the man she was talking to. Richard didn't know much, but he knew cars. He could even tell you what the 6th cylinder does. Most people had trouble explaining cylinders one through five.

Richard lifted his head up from the silver table he had been sitting at for the last three hours. He still didn’t know why he was there, but after three hours of silence a woman entering and saying six words was very exciting. 

I wonder if the proposal is water, he thought to himself, I could really use some water. Better yet something really sweet like a Sierra Mist.

There was another seat across from Richard, but the woman chose to stand.

“Richard, do you know why you’re here?”

“To hear your proposal?”

She smiled. She now had the personality of a blue Toyota Camry LE.

“What can you tell me about your neighbor, Frederick McGasun?”

Earlier that day, Richard was eating hot chicken at one of those trendy hot chicken places where they make chicken way too hot. Sweat soaked through his orange polo as he sloshed down sweet tea. He was alone. Richard could never get hot chicken with a friend, the sweat would turn them off completely. No, hot chicken was a solo game for Richard. He was just getting back into the painful poultry after a few-minute breather when he blacked out and woke up in this room. Or at least he thought that’s what happened, as it was his last memory.

He never did nail down a working theory as to why he ended up in a nondescript grey room with nothing but a silver table in the middle. But of all the theories that became finalists in his head, none of them involved his neighbor Frederick McGasun.

McGasun was the sort of man you loved to have in your life so long as he was always ten feet away from you -- physically and emotionally. He was an ex-Wall Street type who lived in the apartment next to Richard’s off a two-year-old severance package and was stretching that package thin. His choices were erratic, his attention span was non-existent, and his appetite was never ending. Richard theorized that McGasun was the only person in existence with both a coke problem and a weight problem.

Frederick McGasun was a Mustang. Not a good Mustang. Like, one of those thirty-year-old Mustangs that people think are “classic” but aren’t because Mustangs don’t age like Aston Martins. 

“I don’t think about him much,” Richard lied, “but I know he’s a real weirdo. See, he’s like a Mustang. Not a good Mustang. Like, one of those thirty-year-old Mustangs that--”

“I’m going to stop you there,” the woman said firmly. She’s had to shut up a lot of men before. She’s almost at her 10,000 hours and is quite the expert. 

“Richard, my proposal is this,” she began, “if you can get a specific piece of information out of Mr. McGasun, my company is prepared to give you a half of a million dollars.”

Richard simply blinked as he absorbed the totality of that number. And to think, one of his finalists for why he was in this room was maybe they want to sell me this table.

“What bit of information do you need?” he asked.

“Mr. McGasun has stolen proprietary schematics from us. We need to know where they are being kept, both physically and digitally if applicable,”

“What schematics?”

“I can’t tell you that.”

“Well then I can’t do it.”

“It’s half a million dollars. I think you can.”

“How am I supposed to get the info out of him if I don’t know what info I’m getting out of him? Just knock on his door and be like, ‘Hey read any good schematics lately?’”

It was a fair question. The woman finally pulled out that chair, put one foot on it, leaned forward.

“Mr. McGasun has stolen the schematics for a new prototype weapon, the likes of which the world is not prepared for. He is distrusting of everyone but our reports say he trusts you. Richard, you alone can save the world from full annihilation.”

Another one of Richard’s finalists for why he was in this room was maybe someone stole all my furniture and this is just what my room looks like without a bed.

The personification of a blue Toyota Camry LE looked directly into his eyes.

“You see why we need you now. We all do. The fate of the world rests on Richard, the college dropout.”

“How do you know I’m a college dropout?”

“This company managed to build a superweapon and kidnap you with ease,” the woman reminded him, almost angry to respond to his question, “you think we can’t google a name?”

“What does the weapon do?”

The woman wasn’t expecting this question.

“I’m glad you asked,” she lied, “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that.”

“If I’m going to save the world, I need to know what I’m saving it from.”

All of her co-workers were doctors and researchers and scientists and strategists. She forgot how dumb a normal person can be.

“Against my better judgement I will tell you, but know if you tell another soul, you will be destroyed.” She stood up straight. If she was going to cave to this guy, she was going to do it with an appearance of authority dammit.

“It’s a laser emitter that if aimed at a source of water, turns that water into…” she took a moment to sound as serious as a blue Toyota Camry LE could, “It turns water into pineapple juice.”

“Huh?”

“It's not complicated.”

“Why would a weapons manufacturer make a weapon that turns water into pineapple juice?” he inquired. 

“We’re not a weapons manufacturer.”

“Then where the hell am I?”

“You’re in the basement of Dole, the juice company.”

“I don't understand.”

“Look, you know how expensive it is to juice a pineapple?!” she exclaimed, at the end of her rope, “You can’t just squeeze it like an orange. You gotta cut it up and puree it. It’s hard work. We based our entire company on the juice of the most difficult fruit to juice. So in the 1990s our R&D department came up with a device that changes the molecular structure of water into that of pineapple juice. It would save us billions! But it was difficult to end that process. There was an accident, someone’s blood turned to pineapple juice, then the sewage system, before we knew it every water fountain at Dole spat out pineapple juice. And don’t get me wrong, we all love pineapple juice but if you’re craving regular water then pineapple juice is just way too prickly, you know?”

She now had the personality of a blue Toyota Camry LE with a sunroof and a 6-CD changer in the trunk.

“What would happen,” Richard asked, “if someone aimed it at the Atlantic Ocean?”

“Now you see how it would bring about the death of all living things on this planet. And your neighbor, a disgruntled ex-employee, is the key to preventing that. And you are the only man he trusts. Now I ask you again, will you accept my proposal?”

Richard thought for exactly three seconds. It was the most he thought in months.

“That’s an insane device to exist. To be honest I want to see the look on people’s faces when they realize that’s how humanity is going out. Also I'm lazy. So after careful thought I’m going to decline your offer.”

Richard was returned to his boring life and Dole pulled the trigger on Plan B, which failed. Three years later every bit of water in the world’s oceans and lakes became pineapple juice. It was really great for the Tiki community, but eventually did bring about the destruction of all living things.